


New Moves

by WildInkling



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Art, Ballet, Gen, Grief, Humor, Mother-Son Relationship, Painting, Secret Identity, dance, mural painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 22:12:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17775164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildInkling/pseuds/WildInkling
Summary: "Miles needed something else - he needs more moves, he needs new moves. Watching old Spider-man videos on Who-Tube was not gonna be enough."Or: Miles Morales takes up ballet.





	New Moves

Miles swung out over the intersection, flipping in mid air before alighting on the window of an adjacent building. He saluted the crowd of people pointing from their desks inside, then crawled up the wall.  

Miles shot up the face of the building like a bullet, laughing as the air streamed past his face, only to have his breath knocked out of him when he caught his foot on the roof’s edge and slammed himself off the railing and onto the gravel.

“Owww.” Miles heaved himself onto his back. “Can’t… breathe.” He wheezes, staring up at the sky.

Miles thinks of Noir’s effortless grace, the way he can appear out of nowhere, without the use of invisibility.

He thinks of Porker, and the way he seems to violate the laws of physics.

How Peni never falters, despite how young she is.

He thinks of Peter B, and the expertise he’s built over the years - he probably could’ve swung back from the Hudson valley with one web shooter _and_ the bagel.

He thinks of Gwen’s complete control and elegance, her toes always perfectly pointed.

Miles bets that none of them would fall flat on their face 30 seconds after a tight mid air flip with a perfect landing on a vertical surface.

“I gotta practice.”

* * *

 

“Maybe I could join a boxing class? Or karate! That’d be dope.” He said, twirling his chair around to face Ganke.

“Punching would be a useful skill for Spider-Man.” Ganke said absently from the bed, looking at his science notes.

“Hey! I totally know how to punch people, and I’m good at this Spider-Man thing… I just grew three inches in like, a day when I - ”

“Hit puberty?” Ganke snickered.

“Shut up!”

“Maybe you should do parkour! I bet you’d go viral, dude!” Ganke said.

“I think I get enough of that as Spider-man, though, you know?” Said Miles.

“Going viral or doing parkour?” Said Ganke.

“Both. That’s basically what I’m already doing in the suit every day. I’m the king of parkour, but I need something else.”

“You could enter an underground fighting ring like in the comics - you could make some money.” Ganke said. “It’s what Spider-man did in that weird comic.”

“C’mon man, I’m not gonna do that! That would be really unfair, and I don’t think underground fighting is legal. That’s why it’s underground.” Miles spun back to face his laptop.

He tapped his pencil on his desk, beating out a rhythm, then startled when the pencil snapped. He felt a pang for his universe’s Peter Parker.  Miles was already Spider-Man (the nightly news said so!), and he was _really good,_ but how much better would he have gotten with a permanent Peter Parker around to prepare him?

_I can help you. Show you the ropes._

Around all the time he’s spent mourning for Uncle Aaron - whose absence is still a burning crater in his chest, he hadn’t spent too much time thinking about this universe’s Peter. His parents had almost had him go to a counselor for Uncle Aaron, but Miles had demurred, unable to figure out how he’d talk around the Spider situation. Lying to a therapist would be a waste of time and money.

But it’s only been a few days, and his grief keeps coming out at strange moments, bubbling up out of that empty, smoking crater and spilling into other parts of his life, with no way to control it.

Miles leaned his head back and squeezed his burning eyes closed. If Peter Parker (and all the other Spider People) figured this stuff out on their own why did he feel so lost after only a few days without them?

He hadn’t been lying: Miles really _did_ know how to throw a decent punch. Uncle Aaron had taught him the basics of boxing, carefully wrapping his hands and showing him how to square up to the bag when he was little.

But Miles needed something else - he needs more moves, he needs new moves. Watching old Spider-man videos on Who-Tube was not gonna be enough.

Miles needs to get used to his new powers, his new height, and his new reality.

* * *

 

Uncle Aaron’s place has slowly started to empty out - after all the investigators were done, Miles’ family began to pack everything up, trying to decide what to donate and what to keep. It was a stupidly difficult process, both emotionally and logistically.

Miles’ mother took charge of the operation, talked to the landlord, figured out what came with the apartment, and sorted out Uncle Aaron’s possessions. It had to be done, and it was a tedious, heartrending process. Miles helped after school sometimes.

Was the painting on the wall important to Uncle Aaron, and  did Miles want it for this room? How about the speakers? Should we sell them for the college fund? They wouldn’t fit in their apartment. What about the macaroni art that Miles done in kindergarten, prominently displayed in Uncle Aaron’s bedroom? Miles didn’t even remember making it, but there it was, framed on the wall by his bed. Who even framed stuff like that?

It was such a stupid thing to cry over, but Miles had found himself with this face buried in his hands on the floor of his Uncle’s bedroom, unable to look at the pasta glued to faded construction paper anymore.

He wondered about all the other Uncle Aaron’s, in all the other bazillions of universes out there. He wondered if there were universes where Uncle Aaron survived, and if the Miles there could tell him how silly it was to frame a flower made out of macaroni.

His mother had found him then, and just sat down next to him with her back against the bed.

“ I can’t.” His entire body shuddered. “It’s so -” Miles hiccuped, “Stupid Mamá!”

“Oh hijo mío, it’s not stupid at all.” she said, and tucked him under her arm, “He loved you so much. And te quiero.” Rio sat with him until his breathing slowed, rocking and humming a lullaby like she used to when he was little.

But now almost everything is gone, - Miles’ first forays into art included. His mother hadn’t said anything, but Miles suspects that she saved the macaroni flower picture, wrapping it up in bubble wrap and secreting it into a box.

The big heavy stuff is all that’s left in the apartment, the kind of things that they may have to hire movers to get out. Miles of course could get the big stuff out by himself, but thought that maybe carrying the couch downstairs one armed might give him away. He had been very careful when unloading boxes with his parents, hyperaware that he could probably deadlift a car now.

The punching bag is still left though, looking a little bereft in the now spartan space. Miles debated for a second about whether or not to give it a try, then gingerly punched the bag with the same form Uncle Aaron had taught him.

It swung back and forth on the chain, creaking in protest.

“Ok, ok, cool.” Miles said, bouncing on the balls of his toes. “Let’s try that again!

And with that, he punched out and _through_ the bag, remembering the way Uncle Aaron used to stand behind him, correcting his stance and murmuring encouragement.

The hundred pound bag flew up to the ceiling and smashed into the exposed beams, and small splinters rained down from the ceiling. Miles hadn’t even given that punch his all. He pictured his pencil from earlier that day, snapped in a moment of inattention. Then he thought about a karate class, and how easy it would be to hurt someone by mistake. What if that bag was a person?

Maybe he needed to take up a sport? Miles had never really been very into competitive sports beyond some hoops with his friends, but maybe he needed to change that. With all the free time he had. Sure.

But would taking up a sport be cheating? There would be no way Miles could give his all without giving something away, and every sport involved some contact with other people, or tests of strength that would make his participation unfair. Did a spider bite count as steroids? Would he be arrested if he ever played any sports in high school?

Chess was _not_ a sport, no way, not even a little bit. And Miles wasn’t really crazy about yoga.

Did yoga count as a sport?

Yoga seemed alright, but flexibility and balance weren’t things that he really had to worry about. Some of the pictures online looked a little wild, though.

Miles Googled some more pictures of cool yoga poses to see if he could do them, and he _totally_ could. He kept having to look back at his phone while he got into position to make sure he had it right, but he had the pretzel and balance thing down.

He was settled in this pose a lady on instagram had a picture of, with both hands on the ground and his legs twisted up - one behind his head, the other braced against his arm, when his mother opened the door.

Miles startled and fell on his face, squishing his nose up against his phone on the floor in a pile of limbs.

“Ay bendito! Miles! What are you doing?” His mother rushed in to help him up off the floor.

“I - uh, saw this thing online, and I wanted to see if I could do it. Guess I couldn’t.” Miles said, laughing weakly.

“Be careful, tesoro, I don’t want you breaking your neck! What brought this on?” She said.

“It just looked cool, I guess. Y’know, bound side crow is all the rage these days.” Miles said. He meant to stop talking then, but a measure of the truth slipped out, unbidden. “I guess I - I have these friends, and they’re just really, uh, nimble and I’ve grown so much lately that I’m just a little -” Miles’ cheeks grew warm, and he looked down at the ground.

“And do these friends do yoga in their spare time? Or are they acrobats? Do they work in the circus?” Rio said, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“No, well one of them does -” Miles’ eyes widened.

“One of them does yoga?” Miles’ mother said.

“No, no, one of them does dance, like ballet. She’s - she’s really good.” Miles thought of Gwen - her absolute control, her fluid agility, and her grace. “Yeah, she’s really good.”

* * *

 

If it had just been Miles, he might’ve chickened out, but his Mother signed him up for a beginner ballet class that started the next week. Thankfully, it’s not during prime spider-time, and if he doesn’t like it he’s allowed to quit.

“Just try, mijo,” his mother had said, her hand on his head. “It’s good to keep busy.”

So now, here Miles stood, in black leggings and a white t-shirt that he just knows is going to end up stained, feeling oddly exposed in a way he never does in a spider-suit. The mirror in the studio seems unnecessarily large. What if someone recognizes the way he looks in tights?

To his surprise (and relief) he’s not the only other guy in the class - there are two others: a sullen kid with freckles named Vinny, and a broad-shouldered boy whose mother called him “Ty” before she left.

After stretching, (super, super, easy!) They start at the barre. To his surprise, it’s kind of hard to keep his body exactly where he’s supposed to, while paying attention to the music. His instructor was surprised by how low he can plié, but corrected where he held his arm.

When they went to the center of the floor, things got a little more interesting. The only time that Miles had to check his strength was for the jumps (landing on the ceiling of a ballet studio was probably wouldn’t be the best thing).

Ballet is harder than it looks - most of what Miles does as Spider-man is based on instinct - the acrobatics and wild, death defying moves are always guided by intuition and his spider-sense. This is the complete opposite. He has to focus to keep himself in place, but he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally hurting anyone.

It’s a different kind of challenge, and Miles is surprised to find that he enjoys it.  This is _art,_ albeit an entirely different kind than he’s used to. Miles stretches to find how much of himself, how much creativity he can fit within the strict confines of ballet.

So every week for an hour Miles went back to the little ballet studio with its concrete walls and pink marley floor that’s rolling up a little at the sides. He gets dance shoes and black t-shirts (the white ones do stain really easily). He pretends that he’s out of breath when everyone else is and he limits the height of his jumps, but he doesn’t have to pretend in any other way.

Every week he schleps his drawstring bag over to practice, and he doesn’t have to worry about anything else while he’s there; not school and not Spider-man either. He points his toes and turns his feet out and practices the same movements over and over again.

Miles may speak two languages already, but sometimes the new french words get stuck in his head. _Tombé, jeté, attitude, glissade, fouetté._ Maybe he’ll take french in high school. The swell of the classical ballet songs they dance to gets stuck in his head right alongside the rest of his music, and he taps his foot along with the beat.

Miles gets better and better at dance, and if he practices sometimes on top of lonely skyscrapers with his headphones on, then no one else has to know. The combinations start to come more easily, his muscle memory kicking in.

Vinny dropped out after the first two classes (he and his mom had a deal apparently), but Tyler keeps at dance, and he and Miles quickly become the mascots of the beginner ballet class. The girls are all really nice too - they all ask to see Miles’ art, and one even pays him to paint a piece.

He puts it on really nice paper and tries to refuse payment, but Imani shoves a $20 into his hand anyway. The picture has ballet shoes silhouetted in the background, with her name in bold script in front.

His teacher told him that she’s thinking about getting something painted on the big concrete wall in the waiting room of the studio that’s currently covered in a bulletin board and some peeling posters, and would Miles like to put something up?

She’ll pay him, of course.

His dad is thrilled that he’s putting up sanctioned (legal) art, his mom is very proud, and Miles is _jazzed._ He gets to paint a full wall inside, and take as much time as he wants!

So Miles comes in on the weekends, in between patrols and school and ballet class and a million other things, and throws up a riotous mess of color and frenetic motion - different dance styles of dancers mid-motion all over the wall. He wants the painting to look like _motion._ Like life.

Miles puts subtle homages to all the other spider people up in the mural: a black trilby thrown high for Noir, a dancer with a pleated skirt for Peni, a turquoise pointe shoe for Gwen, an anvil in the corner for Ham (this is the hardest to fit in), and the outline of Peter B’s costumed eyes.

There’s an awful lot of purple too - for Uncle Aaron. Miles’ dad is the only one who seems to notice that one, pausing when he sees the deep purple spikes and swallowing hard.

The mural is the biggest artwork he’s ever done; it’s busy and it’s wild and it’s a tribute to what ballet has given him, is giving him every day, both as Miles Morales and as Spider-man 2.0.

Because Miles is getting better at ballet, and better at Spider-man. He can’t say for sure if it’s because of the dance, but he thinks it is. Ballet is also a useful cover for his new muscles - the first time his Dad saw him in shorts when the spring rolls in, he doesn’t wonder at the mystery, the answer seems obvious.

He finds new ease at controlling his movements as Spider-man - the fluid, practiced transition from one move to the next. He still has his instincts that make him a superhero, but he has this now, too. And when you boil it down, fighting can be a little like dancing.

Now, when he swings from one building to the next, his body is held perfectly in position - and when he lands he _sticks_ , one leg out, toes pointed. Spider-man can turn on a dime, on one foot, in a blur almost too fast for the eye to follow.

Miles can’t wait to tell Gwen - right now, there’s shaky communication that Peni set up, but she’s improving the technology every day and will get physical communicators to everyone as soon as she’s sure it won’t explode the multiverse or anything.  Miles had held off mentioning anything to the other spider people, unsure of his new hobby, but he’s ready now.

He’s not about to put ballet shoes on his costume like Gwen, but there’s a surety in his movements as Spider-man that other people have noticed too.  There’s a twitter following that’s growing every day (he has a hashtag!), and more and more people have posted about how he has a new way of moving, lithe and fluid.

His teacher has privately said to him that he should think about applying for dance scholarships when he goes to college. That seems a little too far in the future right now, but Miles has promised her that he’ll think about it. Either way, he’ll keep showing up at the dance studio week after week after week.

Miles may be the only Spider-man who wasn’t alone in the multiverse when he started out, but he found his new moves all on his own.

 

_"One thing I know for sure. Don’t do it like me. Do it like you."_   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ok first thing: I do not speak any Spanish, or AAVE. I tried with this story. I really did, though the information available on AAVE is distressingly thin on the internet. All Spanish came from some quick internet research, and the very little AAVE that Miles uses in this story is based off of my co-workers and friends who are African-American. If I've made a mistake, please feel free to correct me. I didn't want to ignore Miles' cultural identity in this story, but I also couldn't learn two languages in a day, you know?
> 
> Thanks for reading, any comments would be very very appreciated.


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